


Affaire de Coeur

by TheLadyFrost



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Albert Wesker Lives, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Dominance, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Impregnation, Infected Wesker, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 08:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18407198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyFrost/pseuds/TheLadyFrost
Summary: She was never meant to be his.Tempted toward the devil, she can't deny the sin of wanting him. Tempted toward the angel, he can't deny the need for redemption. Brought together, trapped, they'll either burn out...or fade away.





	1. Chapter 1

**_ Affaire de Coeur _ **

_"We were hooked when we woke._  
 _We had arms for each other._  
 _But I yearned to resume_  
 _My dreams of another."_  
― **Roman Payne**

* * *

**Present Day...**

* * *

She gasped, losing her mind, she bucked against his hand. He was insane for her, desperate for her, dying. He knew what he'd been missing before when he'd touched her. He'd been so eager to get his release, he'd forgotten hers.

Sated from their first pass, he was ready now. Ready to give her what she needed. He was ready to give her more. He slid her panties to the side and drew one of her legs up. She shook her head but it ended on a groan, a moan, as he slid inside of her. He watched her face, enamored of her. Her eyes went blind, her skin flushed. She gasped, grasping at him. He slid his hand down her belly and stroked her as he pumped his body into her. He stroked her at the apex of her and stole her soul. She died, coming apart around him, gasping and bucking and sucking him in. He pumped hard and fast into her now, faster, deeper. She cried out, her one leg on the ground shaking and trying to go out on her.

He hooked her around the waist and lifted her, inside her still, and set her on the dresser. The angle was sharper now, harder. She held on, crying out. He pushed her body back and braced one hand on her collarbone and shoulder, the other rolled her hips to him. He shifted, searching for the right angle, and watched her face until he found it. He knew the moment he did because she screamed, open mouth screamed, and grabbed onto the dresser on both sides to hold on. It was the moment she figured out sex was one half fantasy made flesh and one half trial and error.

Testing them both, he surged into her hard enough to watch her eyes blur and feel the slap of his body against her as they hit. It rang through him like a bell. Yeah, he thought, that's what they both wanted. He did it again and it stole his breath this time. She grabbed for his arms and held on and he fucked her deep again, feeling it in his balls, feeling it in his stomach. Wet and sticky, her body urged him on. So he gave it what it wanted, he plowed into her three more times, slow and hard. He hit the end of her at this angle and she screamed, bucking. It only took one more thrust and she came, she came around him and tightened like a fist, stealing his breath and causing him to almost die on the spot. She bucked and he ground himself inside of her.

He watched himself in the mirror over her shoulder. Hair in his eyes and her body, her body, wrapped around him. It was a potent aphrodisiac to be the man claiming her. The power of that alone was nearly crippling.

He picked her up again and took her to the bed. He stayed inside of her, pleasing them both, making her gasp and groan. She rolled him to his back and slapped her hands on his chest. He could do little more than hold on as she forced his body into hers so fast and hard that he couldn't remember who or what or where he was or if he was anything but loins and longing. Her body was all tits and taut belly. They bounced, heaving, and he filled his hands with them, desperate for her. Her rolling hips were lifting and lowering and leaving him insane.

How could she think there was anyone else in this bed but her? She was all he could see and feel and need. He lifted enough off the bed to fill his mouth with all that bouncing breasts. Too much almost for his hands to hold and perfect for teeth and tongue and lips.

And she was right, all those years ago, she'd told him she had the best healing hands in the business. She was right. She used them now to brace on his upper thighs, she arched her back, she offered the bounty of herself to his mouth and she destroyed him.

His hands grabbed the headboard and held on. He watched her in the moonlight, watched her bounce and ride and roll and fuck him. He nearly felt insane with it, insane with want, insane with all of it. She rolled forward to grab his face while she bounced up and down on his dick like a wild, wanton, wonderful thing.

He kissed her, tasting her tongue. She grabbed his hands where they were over the rails and looped their fingers together. The brace of it helped her ride him faster, harder, slapping against him with a wet and wonderful sound. She was a goddess, a buxom goddess, a woman who was trying to rule even as she rode him to victory. The battle was hers and he let her claim it, dying for her.

He tugged at her breasts with his lips, his tongue, licking them as she teased against his face. He saw the mark he'd laid on her and shivered. He set his teeth to other nipple and she was done, she was there. She came around him, wet, so wet and ready and willing that it was time. It was very much time. He gave her and himself what they both were racing toward and filled her up. It was all those years of flirting. He filled her full of all the years he'd wanted her and couldn't have her. He shot into her and wanted to come out the other side of her. She kissed him, so, so, so very deeply.

Forbidden love - consummated.

All he could do was remember how he'd found her - a thousand years ago before the world had turned them both into shadows of what they'd meant to be. When he'd still had hope of being a man. When he'd still had hope of being with  _her._

_Before evil had taken residence within him._

* * *

**1998 - Highway 109 Headed Toward Raccoon City- Winter**

* * *

It would never fail to surprise him how the world seemed to be waiting for his arrival. He knew, he'd always known, that he and the other children from Project W were simply test subjects. Born to intellectually superior parents, they'd been herded like cattle and given the same surname "Wesker."

But none of the other children had his tenacity. None of them had his drive, his determination, his single minded ability to make the world bend to his iron will. Spencer had praised him, favored him, pampered and groomed him to lead.

And let him loose in the their world to start building an empire.

Eager, bright, at seventeen and full of a kind of hope that left him breathless, Albert Wesker found himself on the doorstep of his own future. He'd met William Birkin and birthed greatness from the Ebola virus in that lab with Marcus as his mentor. With Spencer behind them, they'd taken the world by the balls and given life to the Tyrant - the greatest creation since the dawn of the Umbrella Consortium. When Marcus stood in their way, his death was the only way to bring the gift of it to the world.

Killing him eroded the first real piece of the man left inside the creation.

Spencer began to decline, mentally and phsyically, they all knew it when he continously funnelled funding into B.O.W. research that was non-productive. Desperate for a legacy, Spender was rapidly unraveling. To avoid the fallout, shortly after William's funding was approved for the G-Virus program, Wesker secured his own release from beneath Spencer's thumb to the UIB (Umbrella Intelligence Bureau) in hopes of discovering where Spencer's "private donors" were located. The truth was an ugly mistress that fucked them all.

Spencer was playing with strains of viruses so unsteady, things so unpredictable, that it would unravel the entire company before it was done. The only way out was to steal the research and burn Umbrella to the ground to hide it. The sense of betrayal worked like a charm to shove him toward a future where he was no longer a servant, but an architect of his own fate.

The army offered him the training he needed to finally break free of the chains that bound him to his past. With the truth about Spencer in his pocket, and his plan in place, Albert Wesker cast aside the shackels of his Umbrella roots and set about building his elaborate escape that would, in one fell swoop, secure his place in history and destroy Umbrella for it's duplicity.

After years of being the guinea pig, he was finally the Captain. In a handful of weeks, he'd take his self anointed warriors on their quest to greatness.

It was vain, and often self righteous to feel so pompous, but it left him with purpose to know that everything he'd been taught was shortly going to see it's fruition.

His hand picked team was going to unwittingly offer him the keys to his own freedom - the cost would simply be their lives. A small price for a world without Umbrella.

He was so lost in thought that he nearly ran her down on the road.

The dark, the rain, the long highway - it made him glassy eyed with day dreams.

He barely hit the breaks when the headlights danced over her soaked form; hands lifted, face eager, voice straining above the rain. "Oh! Oh, sir! Help!"

The sleek black sedan avoided her and cruised to a stop at the side of the road. She lingered, looking nervous. Finally, the dark gobbled up her smoking motorcycle as she hurried toward his window. With a whir of sound, he could finally hear her.

"Oh thank god, you stopped! My bike broke down...I need a ride to town."

He studied her in the pouring rain. Pretty. Young. She reminded him in his desk of him and Birkin in 79. He was betting she was that young. He'd risk everything he owned on betting she was barely twenty...if she was twenty at all.

She still had that newness that screamed, "Innocent."

_Had he ever been?_

He glanced at the reflection of rain on the road and saw Birkin, laughing and hugging him when they'd discovered T's regenerative capabilities, when they'd found Golgotha waiting inside of Lisa Trevor...such wonder, such hope...had he ever been that young?

His voice carried, above the din, "It's too late at night for a girl your age to be taking rides from strange men."

She paused, eyeing him. He saw the caution on her. What was it about her face that was familiar to him? His brain immediately did an inventory of anyone he knew. It rattled off names and faces like a computer.

And it came up empty.

She called back, "I'm armed. So just in case you decide you want to cop a feel..." She showed him the knife on her thigh in the holster there. Her brows arched and her smile was sly, "I'm not just some girl. I can handle myself."

He was pretty sure all girls felt that way. Brave, stupid, and young - he almost envied it.

Gesturing with his head, he waited while she rounded the hood and climbed into the passenger seat. The car idled before it moved forward onto the rain slick pavement. She sat in the seat beside him, sans belt, and watched his profile. It was a handful of moments before he spoke, "That knife is useless. I could take it from you and kill you with it before you could blink."

Surprised, her brows arched again, "I bet you couldn't, hot stuff. I can't even believe you can see me to kill me. You know it's night, right? Who wears sunglasses at night?"

He glanced at her face and then back at the road, "I have photophobia. It's aggravated at night especially in rainy conditions. The reflection of headlights and puddling water facilitate an ocular reflex that's quite painful."

Curious, she tilted her head, "Really?"

"...really." He glanced at her again, "Where are you headed?"

"The Apple Inn. I'm in town for the Holidays."

He glanced at her, "Christmas is passed."

Her eyes flickered, "Who said anything about Christmas? Maybe I'm Jewish."

He nodded, watching the road, "Hanukkah is passed as well."

She chuckled and patted his arm. "I know. Smart guy. I was teasing." She flopped in the seat, "You remind me of my brother. He has no sense of humor either."

Wesker shrugged a shoulder, "Humor is often without merit. Laughter loses it's purpose when it simply exists to eradicate actual conversation. The utter erosion of the use of meritorious conversing is generally demonstrated by a complete lack of intelligent dialogue. Only those with no real lingual skills resort to poor humor as a way bolstering their confidence. "

She blinked at him in the dark car, "Who talks like that? Are you a robot or something?"

He shrugged again, "Merely making small talk."

She laughed, shaking her head. Her blue eyes twinkled. "Are you? Usually that's things like...how's the weather? And what's your favorite scary movie? Not...a weird lecture on the merits of humor in conversation."

"Maybe I'm just not a funny man."

She laughed again, shaking her head, "Maybe not. Come on, prove me wrong, throw me a pun."

He gave her a droll look and focused back on the road. Amused, she shrugged. "What's your name anyway?"

"Does it matter? We're but passing acquaintances. Our entire acquaintance, actually, will come to an end in less than eight minutes."

She eyed him, mouthing twitching, "True. But think about how much fun we could have in those eight minutes."

He shrugged, seeing no harm in it. "I'm Albert."

She blinked, twice, and cleared her throat. "Albert?"

"Yes. Albert."

Her long legs shifted on the seat. She tapped one booted foot. "I see. Albert. A name nearly as boring as the way you talk."

He gave her another droll look. "Albert is a respectable name."

She shrugged, chuckling. "It's an old man's name. Like Murray. Or Vernon. I'm Claire."

To her great surprise, he actually laughed. It sounded musical somehow and not at all like she'd expected. "Claire...a fat girl's name."

Shocked, she slapped his arm and shamed him with her laughter. Her red hair looked soft and damp in the low light from the road. "Jerk."

He shrugged. "Statistically, most girls named Claire are obese."

And now she shook her head, charmed. "Am I?!"

He glanced at her, considering, and finally returned, "No. You are pleasantly shaped."

Claire chuckled and tucked her knees up. "You're something else, Al. I'm glad you picked me up tonight. It's been a real hoot."

A real hoot. These kids and their sayings. He glanced again at her and his eyes skimmed the line of those long, long legs in her cut off jeans. She was, physically, meant to attract men. She was young, fertile, and feminine in a way that spoke to the hormones. If he were younger and less...what? No. Not less. More. If he were younger and more...normal...he'd perhaps engage in a mild flirtation with her.

He would be curious to see how a flush filled her cheeks and her bosom.

He was a man, after all, and still given to flights of fancy for beautiful women.

He was not, however, the type to pursue relations with a woman on the eve of his master plan. There simply wasn't time for anything to distract him from his purpose here - even if it felt really good to laugh for the first time in years.

He pictured the spill of her body beneath him and shifted on his seat. Apparently the flesh was still more than willing, even when the mind has sense given up on the pleasures it offers.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the Apple Inn. Claire grabbed her bag from the back and opened the door. The rain grumbled quietly in the teeming dark and she paused, eyeing him.

"You wanna come in and get a drink? There's a lobby bar. I'm just meeting my friends."

He glanced at her and shook his head, "I'm old enough to be your father, I suspect. I imagine your companions might not appreciate such a social snafu."

She shook her head, eyes twinkling. "You're something else, Al. Age is just a number, honey. Who cares how old you are? We could all be dead tomorrow right?"

She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He froze, body tensing, and she slid out of the car on a pretty laugh.

"Take it easy, Al. It was really great meeting you. If you ever tug that stick outta your ass? Maybe we can find out what color your eyes are beneath those sunglasses."

She winked and closed the door, hefting her bag over her slender shoulder. He watched her run through the rain, her pretty little butt shaking in the denim cutoffs she wore.

For a moment, he almost wanted to go after her.

But she was far too young and there was no time in his life for romance.

He had an empire to build.

And a legacy to destroy.


	2. Chapter 2

**_ Affaire de Coeur _ **

_"We were hooked when we woke._  
 _We had arms for each other._  
 _But I yearned to resume_  
 _My dreams of another."_  
― **Roman Payne**

* * *

**The Not So Distant Future...**

* * *

Albert Wesker looked down from the glass enclosure high above the room aptly titled  **The Inferno.**

_This is what William had worked so hard to help him achieve. He honored that today._

The Inferno was a work of genius. If Dante had attempted to traverse it, he'd have ended up a wizened stick of decayed flesh before he'd come out the other side. Three football field lengths of tight corners, endless puzzles and a final wide open space where the creatures would be released to end the lives of the S.T.A.R.S members that had been plaguing him since the Spencer Mansion so many years ago.

The techs had been informed to gather the few who had been rejected from theprotocol and give them the necessary equipment to face off with the Goliath himself and his many smaller counterparts. It would been a puny effort at best since the Goliath was nearly a thousand pounds of intelligence and perfectly bred instinct but it would be amusing and it would serve the research effort well.

The girl, Sherry, wouldn't be joining them as she had been proved fruitful and good for the cause. The child she carried was already being injected and monitored with the  **Goliath**  strain. If the injections took, then she would birth the first of the new breed of human evolution.

Most likely, she would die from the birthing, as the child would grow to more then ten times the size of a human fetus, tearing her womb and body as it struggled it's way into the world. But such was the way of things. It was a small price to pay for the gift she would be giving them.

There had been some argument over his decision to put Redfield into The Inferno. Since it was apparent that he was a successful breeder, they had wanted to retain him in the lab and use him in the Protocol but Wesker had been adamant about his participation. Redfield would be let loose in The Inferno. He deserved the hell the Goliath would put him through. The arrogant little shit had spent too long trying to ruin his former Captain.

Hi partner, Jill, was a complete bust; her miscarriage months earlier making her all but useless to them as a breeder and thus set to join her brother in his final bout with death. The bitch dying would be another way to pay Redfield back for all the corporate hoops Wesker had had to jump through lately to save Umbrella's ass.

The half breed Carlos was tainted blood. They didn't want to breed any mixed blooded children from him. The first children born from the Goliath would be pure blooded, one combined race. The Indian, Anglo, Mexican heritage of Oliveira made it impossible to determine that his offspring would be of one race. So into The Inferno for him as well.

Kennedy had been the hardest to convince the techs to allow Wesker to put in The Inferno. He was pure middle american Caucasian, his seed was tested and proved strong. But it was the way Ada interacted with him that made Wesker determined to dispose of him quickly and finally.

Ada belonged to the Goliath, he couldn't let her strong feelings for the ex-cop from Raccoon interfere with her purpose. He was too big of a risk to keep around.

So in less then ten minutes, the four pains in his ass would be set into The Inferno and the cages opened.

He figured they'd last an hour, seventy five minutes at the outside. They didn't have the strength, the cunning or the speed to compete with the breeding of the Goliath creatures.

Behind him, the little lab tech squeaked, "What about the girl, sir? The Redfield girl?"

The Redfield girl.

_Claire._

He hesitated, feeling the shackles surrounding his long dead heart shiver.

She was another reason Kennedy was down there facing the fight of his life. He hated the way she spoke of him. He always had. Even a thousand years ago, when he was still a man, when he was still a soul worth saving...he'd hated the way she spoke of him.

_There's no one with more integrity than Leon Kennedy. I don't think I would have survived that horrible night without him._

Wesker rubbed his hand over his mouth, considering. Finally, he grumbled, "Bring her to me."

"Yes, sir. Yes. Right away."

The door whooshed shut. The silence dragged out. After a few moments, her voice filled his ears, "I'm not a dog. You can't just call me to you whenever you want my company."

Without looking, he put his hand out behind him. A handful of seconds and hers joined it. He jerked her forward and in front of him. His arms looped around her, pinning her back to his front.

Together, they surveyed his playground far below them. He held her to him with his chin atop her head as he spoke, "How long will they last...when I lift the gates and loose the monsters? How long?"

Her voice was rough, cold, and strong. He hadn't broken her. He hadn't tried. And they both knew her reluctance had ended when they'd come together that one night. There was a strange addiction to them that seemed, somehow, to irritate them both. "Let them go, Albert. You don't have to do this. Let them go. I'll stay with you. I won't fight. I won't fight anymore...if you just let them go."

He turned his nose down against the crown of her head, inhaling her scent. She was so still, frozen, in his grip like a curvy statue.

Finally, he answered her, "Why do you resist me, Claire? I can offer you the world if you just...accept me. You continue to chase heroes. Yet you're blind to the truth."

She shook her head, staring into the horror below the glass, "...what truth is that, Albert? You've created a nightmare."

He denied it, squeezing her a little in his arms, "No. No. I've saved the world from that. The damage is done, Claire. Humanity is lost. It's eroded itself through greed and corruption and overt fascination with lust and sloth. The seven sins, Claire. They're aren't just stories. The world is awash in filth. I'm not destroying that...I'm cleansing it."

She shook her head, trembling a little, "Albert..." She almost implored it now. His name like a prayer between them. "You can't really believe that. That's not you talking. That's what they've done to you. They've brainwashed you. They've indoctrinated you into their cult. You're not Wesker."

She turned a little to see his profile and implore him, "You're not a project. You're a man. A man...if you do this...if you finish this...there'll be no hope left for you. The world is fractured, Albert...but it's not lost. Change your mind. Let them go. Stop now while there's still time...and you can still come back from this. I will help you. You can still come back from this."

He squeezed her again, feeling that pain in his chest that was almost like the yearning he'd felt when he first met her. It was the echoes of feelings long dead. Somewhere between that rainy night and this one, he'd lost any sense of humanity. The only glimpse he had of it, was in her arms.

"Claire...someday you'll thank me. When you awake in a world without the filth of a rotten population. When you rise again in a world cleansed of corruption...you'll thank me for saving you."

She whispered, desperately, "If you do this...if you kill my brother like a rat in a cage...I will never love you."

He glanced down at her and the gaze shimmered brokenly. Curious, he inquired, "...did you ever?"

Sadly, Claire breathed, "I might have once..."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and replied, "You will again. When I give you a world without lies. Your brother lies, Claire. The world he tries to protect is lost."

She shook her head, gripping his wrists where they clutched her. "It's not. Please...please...let them go."

She vibrated with rage at the request. Her defiance always made him proud of her. She refused to submit without fighting it as she did. Her strength was legion.

He studied her face and queried, "Who would you send in his stead?"

And now she panicked a little. He watched it dance on her face; fear and anger and stifled need. He pushed, "You once asked me to spare Kennedy too. I will give you one. One of them - your brother or your hero. You decide."

Claire scanned his face, looking for anything that wasn't empty. She ached for the man she'd seen in his face once. She ached, and saw nothing she could reason with. She wanted to offer herself...but she couldn't. Her soul died a little as she whispered, "...my brother."

_Leon, I'm sorry._

Wesker nodded. "I will spare him for you."

He lifted his hand and touched the intercom atop the glass wall looking down into The Inferno. "Get them into the cage. Not Redfield. Put him into an antechamber. Prepare him for guests."

"Yes sir."

Wesker studied her face. "What will he say when he sees you, I wonder? Will you tell him it was force? Will you tell him I made you submit to me?"

Claire shook her head. She closed her eyes and breathed, deeply, "I won't lie. I leave that to you."

A pang of pain echoed in his chest as he answered, "I've never lied to you, Claire. Never. I told you...I'm no hero. The hero always dies."

He turned back as the buzzer signaled the gates lifting and the Goliath releasing.

The fun was about to begin.

This is how he found his redemption for the death they'd dealt him at the cost of Uroboros. This is how Raccoon City should have fallen. This was his moment of victory.

He would show them what it meant to be a god.

His hand slid down and over the heavy mound of the belly of the girl in his arms. She stood stiff and cold there against him as he stroked the evidence of their union. She might never love him, but love wasn't necessary for a new world.

He didn't need her love to fulfill his purpose.

The child in her womb kicked his hand, as if signaling its devotion to him.

He didn't need her love to bring her with him into the new world.

But it didn't stop the pain that lanced between his palm and his cold, dead heart as he remembered what it was like to feel it.

* * *

**Summer -1998**

* * *

The frisbee whooshed through the air and landed on the grass with a plop of sound. The trill of laughter followed it as she bounded over and bent, the lush beauty of her glistening cleavage had most of the men in the park watching her in the tiny bikini she wore above cut off jeans.

Off-handedly, Joseph Frost remarked, "Redfield...your sister...good lord..."

He received a slap upside the back of his head for looking, "Keep your dick in your pants, Frost, or I'll make you a eunuch."

Barry Burton chortled happily, "He already is anyway. When was the last time you got laid, Frost?"

To which Joseph retorted, "I dunno, Burton. Why don't you ask your wife?"

Everyone laughed at the good natured ribbing.

The S.T.A.R.S. and R.P.D. Picnic in the Park was an annual fundraiser where the staff and the officers coordinated with the community to get together and raise funds, raise awareness, and recruit new talent.

Bravo and Alpha team were gathered in swim suits and around barbecue grills while music trilled happily and people laughed. Cooking meat, laughter, and conversation peppered the pretty green grass as the world shimmered in high humidity and the sidewalks steamed in the sun. Most of the men were watching Claire and her college girls run around and play frisbee.

Chris was watching Jill in her tasteful one piece and shorts work with some of the new female rookies on a work out regimen. Glancing between her and his face, Barry mused, "Just ask her out."

Chris rolled his eyes and ignored him, lighting a cigarette.

All of it was pretty typical until the Captain showed up.

It was like Jesus walking on water to join them.

They all went uptight. People stared. Someone checked to see if there was a plague of locusts or a river a blood under the bridge nearby.

But it was just Albert Wesker joining the party.

And Albert Wesker never joined the party.

Ever.

The frisbee skimmed over the grass and landed near his boot. In full uniform, he looked out of place in the boiling summer heat.

He wasn't sweating. He glistened, almost prettily, as Claire bounded over and snatched the frisbee up, rising quickly. Her breasts jiggled enticingly in the tiny red bikini top she wore.

She grinned, tossing her damp hair out of her eyes, "...lord. Even at a party, you still manage to look like you have a stick up your ass. How ya been, Al? Picked up any hitchers on the side of the road recently?"

He arched a brow behind his sunglasses, "I believe the level of preparation for most late night travelers has improved since our encounter. Perhaps most motorists are better prepared for eventualities than you."

Claire blinked, eyes sparkling, and grinned, "You giving me shit?"

He shrugged a shoulder, remaining dead pan, "If that's how you see it."

"It definitely feels like being chastised. You lecturing me, Albie?"

He lowered his sunglasses to peer at her over the tops, narrowly, "It's Albert. Albert Wesker."

And she giggled a little, winking, "I like Albie. Albert is the name of a guy in a nursing home. Wesker? You're the boss huh? My brother works for you."

Curious, he tilted his head, "Does he?"

"Hmm. Chris? He's your marksman." She gestured to where her brother was stuffing his face with a hotdog.

At that, he could see the resemblance. The same eyes. The same line of ears. The same sense of humor. Redfield was a bit of a trouble maker, honestly, and constantly flouting authority - but he was the most determined and dedicated soldier Wesker had had the courtesy of working with.

Claire, clearly, had gotten all the looks in the family. Her bohemian, gypsy pretty features had translated better to her. On Redfield, it made him look more like an awkward, big eared monkey.

Wesker nodded, watching her toss the frisbee back to her waiting friends. She put a hand on her hip and cocked it, studying him. A line of sweat slid down her taut belly toward her fraying denim cutoffs. "Your brother is a good soldier."

Claire grinned, shaking her head, "His commanding officers in the Air Force would disagree. They couldn't wait to get rid of him. He thinks he's the fucking boss of everyone huh? But he'll never let you down, I promise. Most loyal dude on Earth."

When she shifted, the sun struck her hair and eyes and reminded him a painting of the goddess Artemis he'd seen in Rome once when he was a boy.

Wesker stared at her until she shifted, her grin widening, "Hello? You zone out on me, Albie?"

He shook his head, mouth twitching, "It seems I was mersmerized by the color of your eyes and hair in the sunlight. It's Titian."

Claire tilted her head at him, blinking, "Titian?"

He turned his head, clearing his throat a little, and charmed her to her toes. He seemed almost uncomfortable. "Ah...yes...In a series of paintings executed following his return from Padua, Titian explored the Giorgionesque half-length figural prototype. Characterized by a certain intimacy, the motif offers a close-up view of its subjects, who, cut off by and appearing immediately behind the frame, present themselves directly to the beholder. Working within this compositional context, Titian developed a type of image informed by classical restraint as well as by a gentle sensuality..."

Claire shifted closer to him in the grass, a little enraptured by how he spoke. She'd never, in all her life, met anyone quite like him. He didn't flatter unduly...he just spoke with a concise and clear set of words that made you realize he was speaking facts, not falsity.

He added, quietly, "Flora was the first of Titian's works that I saw...she was beautiful and young, buxom and had hair like sunlight and fire." He shrugged a little, "It's said that Flora, the nymph, once ravished by Zephyr, who in turn became seductress was his most classical representation of beauty."

Neither realized they'd moved somewhat close in the heat, speaking quietly to each other now.

Claire queried, quietly, "Do you agree?"

He studied her for so long she thought he wouldn't answer, but he did. "The portrait is a poor substitute it seems."

Her lower lip rolled under teeth as she laughed, softly. She dropped her eyes and flushed. He shifted on the grass and cleared his throat.

It was unseemly to stand here like this with a girl barely out of highschool.

Wesker shifted away, "Well...thank you for your support today, Ms. Redfield. It was a pleasure seeing you again."

He shifted away, heading toward the table of beverages. Claire watched him go, feeling the frisbee plop at her feet and rest there. She nibbled the lip poked between her teeth, considering him. It was curious that Chris hadn't ever, once, mentioned that his boss was a fox.

Of course, men didn't usually notice things like that anyway, did they?

Behind her, Rebecca Chambers bellowed, "Game on, Redfield! Stop gawking at the rookies and MOVE IT!"

Claire picked up the frisbee, pacing backward, and thought she just might stop in tomorrow to have lunch with her favorite brother.

* * *

 **Post Note:**  I am not a scientist. So I stole alot of the nerdy wordy stuff in this story to sound smarter than I am. If you're curious find it here: Make sure you put the http: /cover-story/viral-soldiers-34289. Virus Soldiers.


	3. Chapter 3

**_ Affaire de Coeur _ **

_"We were hooked when we woke._  
 _We had arms for each other._  
 _But I yearned to resume_  
 _My dreams of another."_  
― **Roman Payne**

* * *

**Raccoon City - 1998 - Two Days Before the Mansion Incident**

* * *

He took her shorts. He took her panties. He dropped like a hungry thing between her legs.

And that? That was good. That was really good. He'd always been good at it. He was BETTER now. BETTER.

Claire humped against his face, gasping. He hummed, he licked, and he tongued her like she'd had crack in her pussy. It was...it was good. She came so wetly against his that it almost hurt. She jerked and flopped, a landed fish.

So, that part of the "Life's Too Short" approach was good.

Shuddering, she watched him rise up. He slid against her. He pushed her shirt up and her bra and put his mouth to her tits. It was good there too. He used so much teeth that it was nothing but exciting. She squeaked like an eager thing without restraint.

That kind of rowdy foreplay always got her going.

The angle was perfect because he slid right into her. And she was good and slick from his tongue. He went in, hard, hit the end of her and slapped there. It hurt.

And it felt good.

But he knew that too.

This wasn't their first trip to the rodeo.

He pushed her knees back and fucked into her body three times, hard. It brought her scrambling hands up to grip handfuls of his chest and make him grunt.

"...fuck." She grunted it as well. And he eyed her coolly. No response. But he wasn't a vocal man. Not here, not now, not when he was claiming her.

He pistoned into her while she squeaked, scrambling and bucking against him. That was good. Of course it was good. The anger on his face? It wasn't good. Who was he angry at?

She couldn't stand the anger. It hurt her to see it. She shoved at his chest, startling him. "Who are you fucking? Who are you punishing?"

Wesker shook his head. He shifted. Her legs spilled down his flanks and he dropped into a push up position. The rhythm went slick, smoother. He cruised instead of bruised. Her thighs opened to let him in further.

It was good.

But his face? ANGRY.

Their bodies slid together wetly. She shifted, throbbing, and tried to kiss him.

She didn't want to fuck him angry.

It stopped mattering - none of it matter anymore as she came around his plunging possession. She clutched at him, thrusting her hips up to swallow him down.

He wasn't angry at her. He couldn't be. He'd never been. He was angry at himself.

In a handful of days, he'd lead her brother to his death.

It was the first time he felt the pangs of guilt drive doubt into his purpose. His hands shifted to scoop her hair back from her sweaty face. She craned her neck to kiss him, softly trembling.

And he clutched her to him for just a moment longer.

It was the only time in his life he was ever ashamed of his name - and the legacy of destruction that came with it.

If he could just go back to the beginning, just go back and change his path...maybe he'd be a man instead of a minion. Maybe he'd be a man who deserved a woman to love him.

Instead of the product of a fool's delusions of grandeur.

Sometimes it was impossible not to remember all the things that had led him here, to this moment, in the arms of a woman he could never have, looking at a life that wasn't meant to be his.

When he'd started as nothing more than a rat in a cage made of lies.

* * *

**Erasumus, Idaho -1965**

* * *

Once more the boy was proving he was the most competent of the group.

The girl, Code Name: Alex, was almost as fast. She was eerily calm when the other's panicked. She was particularly proficient at opening the programming on the droids and converting it to her will. They playfully called her  **The Overseer**  as she often controlled the others in the program through sheer force of will.

But the boy, Albert, he was the dark horse in the running. He excelled at everything he touched. His IQ was dangerously high. His test scores marked him as almost idiot savant in sheer intellect.

They watched him, seeking signs of mental retardation that often came adjacent to such superior cognitive reasoning. But Albert simply thrived among the inane. He was so pleasant. He blended like a chameleon or separated from the pack like a lone wolf.

He was smart and cool and manipulative in such a subversive way that the other children weren't even aware he'd gotten exactly what he wanted from them until it was over. He was the unannounced leader of the pack. Alex sat in a position of command - but she was a figurehead, a red herring, Albert let her sit atop the throne while he ruled in the shadows.

He was, in a single word, brilliant.

And he was only five years old.

The staff was careful not to favor him. If the other children in Project W were to become aware, a revolt would ensue. They would likely destroy Albert before he could ascend successfully to his proper place.

There was little interaction between the subjects and the staff regarding Project W.

 **Project W** was a eugenics project pioneered by Oswell E. Spencer which intended to develop an advanced race of human beings. The project was named after the first director of the project, Dr. Wesker and all successful child candidates are renamed with this surname. This was one of the most significant viral operations centering around the Progenitor virus.

Dr. Wesker had somehow birthed over a dozen children for the cause.

Spencer always believed that the world was in a pre-apocalyptic state. His entire life, he motivated those around him toward the goal of a new world filled with superior humans that perpetuated a race driven toward a utopian society that would eventually evolve the Earth. With Umbrella in his pocket, Spencer began putting his vision of spurring evolution through viral engineering to work. He authorized the kidnapping of hundreds of children born of parents with gifted levels of intelligence who were brainwashed into personalities suited toward serving him.

Their features were all similar, all specific, all Aryan. He wanted blonde. He wanted blue eyes. He wanted pale and perfect. Taking his cue from the disgraced megalomaniac Hitler, Spencer continued his dream of a perfect race. A master race. A race of mankind worth saving.

Albert sat alone while the other children laughed and jumped, playing and laughing, dancing and singing. He did none of these things. He and Alex maintained a quiet distance.

She would, occasionally, offer him fruit from the bowl at her knees. He took it, studying her. She looked back, unabashedly.

But they never spoke.

Today was the day he discovered their greatness. Today was the ultimate test.

Beyond the glass, Spencer watched the men in white emerge into the play yard with the children. The children didn't all react accordingly.

All of the candidates were injected with a prototype virus, some by the advice of "friends," some as part of a supposed health checkup, and others by force. But the first went down eleven minutes after exposure.

Derek went first - the child with the lowest average intelligence. He collapsed on the ground and vomited blood until his face bubbled and his body jerked him into a slow, agonizing death.

Irma followed - a pretty girl in a white dress who had shown significant success with telekinesis. She screamed and clawed her chest to ribbons and blood as she died.

The fear set in after that as the rest panicked.

Albert remained apart from it, holding his arm where they'd injected him. Only the fear in his eyes gave lie to his demeanor. Alex succumbed to the fear and turned against him to be held. At the end of the day, she was still a woman and women were weak and often sought protection from men.

Spencer nodded, watching them. If they both lived, he would mate them when they came of age to perpetuate the line.

Hans died weeping. Felicia imploded into blood and bones. William mutated and grew two extra limbs and half a head before he died. Marco inverted until his body simply cracked and fell apart in blobs of blood and broken bones. Ken died as his stomach erupted and allowed mutated miniature creatures to escape around the playyard like birthed babies from hell.

Miles died a day later in a coma.

Laura hung on for eight days.

Alex and Albert showed no signs of infection. Superior as always, they became his perfect children. He engineered them to love him, admire him, seek him out, respect and adore him. They were his birthright. His legacy. His greatest miracle. His masterpiece.

But they still had no clue of the project. They just assumed they were gifted, special, unique and groomed to excellence. They were. They would be.

He had no idea he was grooming them not be the perfect race...but to be the perfect monsters.

But those little monsters would make him a  _god._

* * *

**Raccoon City - 1978**

* * *

"It's a great pleasure to work with you, sir. I'm here for whatever you need, whenever you need it."

Albert had grown into a man worthy of a new world.

Spencer, sitting in his chair behind his desk, grinned happily, "I'm glad to hear it. You'll be working in the lab with William Birkin. I hear the two of you are acquainted?"

Albert nodded happily. "We met a few weeks ago, sir. He's very eager to start on the project. As am I."

"I like the enthusiasm, Albert. I really do. It's long over due here. It'll be exciting to see what kind of insight and fresh perspective two young minds can bring to the table."

Albert smiled back, eagerly. "I hope so, sir. I really do."

He was dismissed and stepped into the hallway, pausing to take a deep breath. Every time he was around Spencer, his heart just raced. Why? It was a mystery.

There was laughter as Annette and William came down the hallway toward him. His two best friends in the world. It was a strange feeling to embrace the pangs of affection he felt when they were around. Emotion wasn't always easy for him. He was often stifled by the need to hide from it or deny it.

They paused to engage him in conversation. William and Annette were always watching him in a way that felt strangely personal. It wasn't that he was unaware of how to maintain personal relationship, he just didn't bother. He made the effort with William. After all, the man was brilliant and the comfortable rivalry between them was energetic.

He was looking forward to what the future would bring him, safe beneath the comfortable awning of the Umbrella Company.

* * *

**Raccoon City - 1981**

* * *

The news of Alexia Ashford, the child prodigy, being hired as a senior virologist was a hard blow for William. All of their hard work and their efforts were stalled since the moment they'd been hired. The brain damage was almost impossible to over come in T-Virus patients. They could keep them alive, unlike the virulent strain of the original, but at what purpose?

Brain dead meant useless.

Ashford's addition to the company was like a kick in the crotch.

Even his marriage to Annette didn't seem to bolster him.

In fact, the marriage seemed to depress him further.

After too many drinks, he confessed, "...she's not happy." William threw up his hands, "She's not happy with me. I'm not man enough for her! I can't do anything right, Albert! I'm a failure!"

Wesker hated self pity. He found it tedious and annoying. He was moved to be disgusted with the other man at it's arrival into their conversation. To avoid it, he ordered another drink for his drunken companion and left him snoring in the booth of the bar to sleep it off.

Annette was waiting for him as he arrived back to his quarters. Pretty, young, apologetic and brilliant, she was a woman worth marrying. She came from good stock and was considered a catch.

Without preamble, as he showed her into his living area, she announced, "William is impotent, Albert. He's incapable of achieving an erection. I'm in love with his briliance...but my body has needs."

She rolled the glass of whiskey in her hand that he passed her and eyed him, coolly. "I have needs, Albert."

The comfortable rivalry between him and William extended even here. He understood her innuendo. If she left him, William would fall apart. He'd have nothing left. Between professional and personal ruin, he would drown in misery and self destruct.

He needed Annette to succeed. Annette was his anchor. Keeping her happy was the priority.

It was the first time he bedded William's wife to keep her satisfied.

* * *

**Raccoon City - 1983**

* * *

In the face of his rivalry with the ten year old genius, Alexia, William perfected the Hunter. The Hunter was nearly pristine in it's development. His first successful attempt at Bio Organic Weaponary created through bonding reptilian DNA with a fertilised human egg cemented the was proof of Birkin's genius.

It was evidence that keeping him happy boded well for the company.

He became aware of Annette's occasional departure to Albert's bed. To the surprise of all involved, there was no jealousy. William began to join them. He didn't engage, he observed. He would sit in the chair across the bed and masturbate as they copulated.

It wasn't long before Albert realized William was homosexual. Any attempt to draw him toward a lifestyle that involved admitting it was long passed. In their world, it was neither accepted nor encouraged to embrace alternative life styles. Annette was his wife, she was his concession to a world that required conformity.

But he craved, in secret, the man she bedded behind closed doors.

Their successful  _menage-a-trois_ produced desirable results for all involved. Each excelled in their professional life and their personal.

In 1986, Sherry Birkin was born.

It was unspoken, but it was clear who her biological father was. William denied it, claiming he and Annette sometimes fornicated after Wesker had left them.

Wesker was unconcerned. He wasn't seeking validation through children. And being female, Sherry was of little interest to him anyway.

He was as yet unaware that he was not a man with a future bright with prospects. But a pawn in a game too big for him to comprehend.

And Sherry would be the first of two that would bring about a checkmate that would cost him his life.

* * *

**Raccoon City - 1998 - Four Weeks Before The Mansion Incident**

* * *

The Tyrant had given them all freedom from the web of lies that was Spencer's legacy.

He was still reeling, still trying to find the truth in all the madness that he'd uncovered in the last few weeks. William was off the grid, lost, and possibly dead. The G-Virus was missing. The city was shaking on the side of a cliff crumbling as he stood there, lecturing the S.T.A.R.S. on procedure and paperwork.

It was a world poised on the point of a painful precipice - stepping one way or the other guaranteed you'd tumble to your death.

Either way he stepped now, the game was in progress. The pieces on the board were all in place. This ended with him on top, or him dead. It was the only way to break himself free from the company that had used him like a puppet for so long.

Nothing could get in his way.

The laughter drew his eye as he crossed the balcony to the coffee cart that waited near the west side. She stood by the fountain, looking cool and beautiful. Her hair glimmered in the low lights.

The goddess statue looked down at her and dwindled by comparison.

What was it about her that grew things in his chest that had long ago went dormant?

She turned and caught his eye. It was almost like she zeroed in on him high above her. Did she sense him there?

Young. She was so young. Barely older than Sherry Birkin, a handful of years if his calculations were correct. Was it her youth that drew him? Her innocence? Her simple beauty and hopeful energy?

She chewed her lower lip and winked. She didn't wave. She didn't simper and giggle. Young, but not silly and frivolous.

Was some part of him simply drawn to the hope she offered? Had he given up on any kind of life before he'd met her on that rainy back road?

He searched under the levels of revenge to the truth of that and acknowledged it. Part of him wanted a woman, like Annette had been to William, an anchor, a mother to his child. That Sherry was likely his remained disinteresting to him.

The girl was average at best. She wasn't a genius. She had nothing significant to mark her as his offspring. Her birth, her youth, her personality all bored him. She was unremarkable.

Was he hungering to see the birth of one who wasn't?

Why did his loins think Claire Redfield would give him that child?

He'd looked her up and found her background entertaining, parallel to her brother, and simple enough. She was the half sister of Chris Redfield - his mother was hers. A divorce had left Chris without a biological father until his mother had married Claire's father and together they'd birthed the redhead. It explained the difference in their looks. Claire came from two shades of red haired parents after all. Chris' father had been dark, of questionable birth and race, and brutish looks.

Claire was delicate. She was ethereal.

Amused at himself, he shook his head and inclined it to her as he turned back to his office.

A silly thing to whimsically idolize a girl half his age. Especially when this story ended with her brother and his companions all dead to further his ascent. What kind of relationship could he realistically cultivate with her?

It was best to leave it alone.

There was a brief knock on his door. He glanced up from the report he was reading to find her standing there in the little yellow sundress she'd worn in the lobby. She cocked a shoulder and smiled, looking pretty and fresh somehow in the cool air conditioning.

She lifted a basket in her hand, wicker and filled with a red and white bunting. Her smile was bright. "My brother stood me up for lunch. What do you say, Al? You hungry?"

Before he could remind himself it was a bad idea, he opened his mouth and answered, "I am in need of sustenance, yes. You often picnic with your brother?"

Claire grinned, eyes twinkling, "Nope. I was hoping I'd see you."

Her candor was charming. It made him shake his head and snort out a laugh. "Well...I'm flattered. Although you should be concerned at the differences in our ages, Ms. Redfield. I'm old enough to be your father."

Claire shrugged and rolled her eyes. "It's the 90's, Al. I don't think anyone gives a shit about age anymore. It's just lunch, not a proposal. Usually Jill is always stealing the sandwiches, so it's good she's not here today."

"I heard she has a penchant for enjoying them."

"True. Her nickname is Hoagie. Because that girl will kill a sandwich in fifteen seconds flat. She's the master of it."

She set the basket on his desk. He rose from his chair to move around it toward her and remarked, "She's the master of many things, it seems."

Claire laughed, perching a hip on the mahogany. "That's what they say. Although I've seen her drunk and post loss of her keys. It took her eighteen minutes to break into her own apartment. Master of unlocking, my ass."

Wesker felt it before it happened. It was like a phenomenon he was yet unaware of in the history of his world. He opened his mouth and quipped, "Perhaps she didn't have the right tools to unlock it."

"Her door?"

"No. Your ass. You did say she was the master of unlocking your ass."

They both blinked. Claire stared at him for a long moment before she burst out laughing.

"That...That was just...oh lord- that was bad. That was..." She gripped his arm and laughed, touching her forehead to the front of his uniform. "Surprise surprise...he's human after all."

Was he?

He'd forgotten how to be. Had he ever really been?

He as created to be a weapon. Did he even really know how to be a man?

He glanced down at her pouting mouth and felt the stirring in his groin. He'd felt it once for Anita Muller. He'd felt it once for Annette.

He felt it now for Claire Redfield.

Apparently, his body was still a man after all.

And he lowered his mouth to hers while she blushed and smiled at him. It was the kiss of a dying man, in a way. It was the kiss of betrayal.

It was the last kiss of a man about to destroy her world...so he could become a god.


	4. Chapter 4

**_ Affaire de Coeur _ **

_"We were hooked when we woke._  
 _We had arms for each other._  
 _But I yearned to resume_  
 _My dreams of another."_  
― **Roman Payne**

* * *

**Raccoon City - 1998 - Two Weeks Before The Mansion Incident**

* * *

He awoke from a dead sleep to sit bolt upright in bed. His hand scrambled blindly for the remote control to his television as he muted the sound of the news droning monotonically before him. He had such trouble sleeping in the silence lately. The television granted him just enough sound to slumber.

Although his slumber was broken by the nightmares.

It was a curious thing to experience them. All his life, he'd been immune to the trials and tribulations that came with the human psyche. When others fell prey to romance and ridiculous conjecture, Albert Wesker had always stood apart as a master of his own emotion. He wasn't known to be a man given to responding on a whim, or without a purpose, or on a feeling.

He was calculated, driven, and controlled.

But lately the nightmares were reminding him that he was also, it seemed, mortal.

He kept picturing Marcus begging for mercy.

_"Albert...this isn't what you want. Spencer is playing you. He's using you. Don't you see it? Don't you both see it? William...William please...resist him or he'll be the end of you."_

Marcus had begged so pitifully. In a pool of blood and surrounded by his failed leeches, he'd looked like an old man and nothing like the genius that Wesker had hoped one day to sit beside on the throne of greatness.

William, nervous but excited, had leaned over him and laughed,  _"I will take over your research, Marcus. I will do it gladly."_

Marcus had reached up at him with one blood hand, the other half blown away by the gunfire that had started his inevitable death.  
" _Albert...I beg you...show clemency...show mercy..."_

And Wesker had tilted his head, rather like a curious dog, as the shiver of pity had arrowed into his chest to remind he wasn't devoid of all emotion. "...time to die, doctor. Rest in peace."

Marcus had cursed him, gasping, " _...you'll join me. He'll see you dead...Wesker."_

The guilt surprised him even now as Albert rose from his bed to move into the kitchen and reach for a glass of water. To his surprise, his hand trembled as he lifted it to his lips. The trembling upset him worse than the nightmares.

The mind was one problem; the body another.

If he started to manifest symptoms, physically, he was done for. He needed something to take the edge off. He needed something to help him crush the feelings of remorse and regret that had started to crop up in the last few days.

He needed to remove the yearning that had settled painfully around his heart like a vice.

There was a shuffle of sound as he turned his head toward it. Not a monster. Not a creature. Not the taunting memory of Spencer setting himself up as a god among mortals.

No.

Just a girl.

Just a girl that didn't belong.

Just a girl that he couldn't let go of.

She tilted her head, "Al? You ok?"

He wasn't. He hadn't been since he met her. She was opening some door, crumbling some wall, eliciting some kind of psychological response. He wasn't a man given to things he couldn't see or understand. He didn't believe in witchcraft - but somehow she'd put a spell on him.

He wasn't even sure how he felt about it all.

His mouth said, "I'm fine. Go back to sleep. I'll be there in a moment."

She shifted in her little white panties and her black tank top toward him. His arms opened and she slid against him, looping her arms around his waist. His face turned down and hers turned up so they could kiss, softly.

"I can wait," She leaned her ear against his chest, "Want to tell me what's bugging you?"

Bugs. Leeches. The leech project created by Marcus was weighing on him. They'd eradicated the Queen Leech and dumped her in the swamp with Marcus' decomposing corpse. Why was she haunting him?

Was she stuck to his mind the way Claire was stuck to his soul?

Curious about the thought, he studied it. Did he believe that he had a soul? That was Marcus' thoughts as well. A devout christian, he troubled sometimes with the work they were doing.

_"Do you believe in hell, Albert?"_

_"I believe hell is empty, Dr. Marcus. I believe the devils are already here."_

Marcus made peace with his science when he convinced himself that he was saving mankind from the devil. He was using his genius to give birth to the long dead hope of a world fit for the resurrection of his lord. He believed in one god, one utopia, one peaceful end. Some days, Wesker wished he'd had belief in anything like Marcus believed in God.

He'd prayed while he'd died.

_"Yay though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me."_

That faith had stayed with him while the light had left his eyes.

Claire turned her face up to him. "Is it me?"

It was. And it wasn't.

He was afraid there was no light left in his eyes, but her.

He wasn't even sure anymore how she'd gotten in.

* * *

**Raccoon City - 1998 - Four Weeks Before the Mansion Incident**

* * *

The bar wasn't his scene at all. He was never the type to set foot in one. Ever. The mouth breathers that attempted flirtation and copulation within such establishments bored him.

But she'd asked him to meet her.

After their brief lunch, she'd left him feeling alert for first time in a long time.

He was like an addict, it seemed, chasing that rush to feel it again. Was it simply her innocence that captivated him? Or the feeling that she'd survived something that had left her a little scarred but alive? Alive.

It was a word that simply resonated when he was near her.

Claire Redfield was alive. She took things as they came. She had a filthy mouth and a strong right hook. He watched her punch a would be suitor clean in the mouth when he relentlessly hounded her across the smoky bar.

The man recoiled to the laughter of his friends.

Claire, holding a pool cue, and wearing cut off shorts and a pink vest over a tight black shirt, caught sight of him standing near the door. Her face lit up as she waved. The angry look she'd given her overly handsy victim vanished under a wash of amused delight.

"You came!"

He moved toward her, shifting the sunglasses off his face to tuck them on the collar of his shirt. Claire shook her head, watching him effortlessly navigate the room. He moved like a tiger or something, stalking instead of walking. He always wore black. Always. She was wondering if he owned another color.

But it was ok. Black suited him. Some men made black look boring. Wesker made it look retro or something. Rock stars wore black. Like David Bowie or Mic Jagger, he wore it like he owned the night.

And maybe he did.

After all, he wore sunglasses in the dark. It took a hard core guy to pull that off.

She leaned on the cue as he approached, grinning. "I'm flattered you accepted."

His mouth curved up on one side. "I'm trying to invent a reasonable response to why I did, but clever retorts fail me."

Claire winked at him, "Save clever for someone else. I'll take honesty."

Wesker nodded and put a hand out to her. "May I?"

"Please." She offered him the cue and watched him turn toward the balls on the table.

"Two in the corner pocket." After a quick assessment, he leaned over and carelessly sent the balls scattering. The two ball rolled happily into her pocket and clanked against the other balls there.

Claire laughed, shaking her head, "I should've known you'd be good at this."

Wesker nodded, shifting to perch on the stool while she took over the table. "Billiards is really just mathematics. It's geometry and the use of simple shapes."

Claire paused with a beer halfway to her mouth. She laughed, shook her head, sipped her beer and tucked the pool stick against her to aim. "You're a weird guy, Al. I have to admit."

"Weird is relative. I'm simply unconcerned with social normalcy when it comes to conversation." He sipped the beer she'd ordered for him. "You'll miss your shot if you aim that way."

Claire paused and glanced up at him, "Yeah? I'm pretty good myself."

"You could be better."

Her laugh echoed in the pool hall. She tugged the stick up and invited, "Alright, smart ass, come on over here and show me."

Shrugging, Albert shifted toward her. He leaned against her back and adjusted her arms, speaking gently, "Locate your target point on the ball.."

He trailed off as he adjusted her arms and her hands on the cue. She was watching his face instead of what he was doing. She watched his mouth as he spoke, "Visualize the table as a graph, reduce it to squares of twelve by twelve. If you do, you can see how the line of your ball correlates with the line of your destination. If you're aiming for the center left pocket, for example, you'll cross two grids in the process - controlling the angle on your ball helps you control its path across those grids."

Claire was so quiet that he turned his head toward her. "Are you listening, Ms. Redfield?"

His eyes were so blue up this close it was like looking into the sky on a clear snowy day. She answered, softly, "No. I'm sorry. Al?"

"Hmm?" His gaze drifted to her mouth as she rolled her lip under.

"I think math is super fucking boring."

She pressed a kiss to his mouth before he could find a suitable retort. It didn't seem relevant anymore, really. She meant it to be soft and sweet. But a handful of seconds after it started, she realized she was out of her depth here.

Their noses brushed as they kissed. He kept his eyes open to watch her reaction. She felt obligated to do the same.

After a breath wheezed into her lungs, she stopped kissing him. He watched her, so quietly, until she murmured, "...well, shit."

And they both realized no one had let go of the pool cue.

Claire whispered, "You are not my type at all."

To which Wesker replied, softly, "Types are relative to the chemical reaction process of the brain to the hormones characterized by prioritizing the need to mate and inseminate their chosen partner." (*1)

Claire blinked, twice, and laughed soft and low. "Al?"

"Yes?"

"You're a big dork." She pressed another kiss to his mouth and lifted her hands from the pool cue to cup his face.

As they seperated, Claire turned in his arms. He pressed her against the table and stole her breath as she queried, "What about love? Where does love come from?"

A good question. He wasn't sure he had the answer. He wasn't sure he believed in love anymore than he believed in attachment as a human response. He'd tried, once upon a time, to attach to a woman in a consistent fashion.

But he breathed, "Love is characterized in building a nest, defending mutual territory, and producing offspring to facilitate that compensatory nature."

Jesus his nerd talk turned her on. She nodded, shifting her hands under his shirt to touch his belly while he talked. "Oh, yeah? Does that feed the sex drive? Because mines hungry for you."

His common sense scrambled, surprising him. It was his ordinary response to a female aggressor. But, biologically, it made sense for him to be drawn to her. She was young and fertile, her body sending off signals to copulate and reproduce. Her breasts were full and ample, allowing the male ego to be drawn to the image of her breastfeeding their shared young and similarly using those breasts to satisfy his sexual cravings.

She had wide hips that were clearly meant for birthing, spanning beyond the scope of his outstretched palm in a way that signaled the delivery of an infant would be easy for her. Simply put, Claire Redfield had a body made for conception.

It made sense she would trigger urges to mate within the male populace.

So he told her, " _T_ he libido is chemically represented by the craving for sexual gratiﬁcation and associated primarily with the hormones. It evolves into the search for the sexual capable that the body deems appropriate."

Claire tilted her head at him, "Am I appropriate?"

He watched the flush of her skin in her neck and bosom. His gaze followed his hands as they curved around her hips. "You're fruitful and young. The age of the male is irrelevant, usually, for mating. And it reasons that we primarily seek out women of child bearing age."

Her eyes sparkled, "Hmm. You asking me to have a baby with you?"

His hand slid around her hip and palmed flatly over her taut belly. Her smile cracked a little as something moved behind her eyes. They held the look until he answered, softly, "I've never considered having a child with a partner and raising it."

Claire tilted her head again, studying his face. He looked so..confused? Afraid? What was it? Something. Something on his face that made a lie out of the heavy intelligence he was spouting. He was saying all the things a scientist would say, but he was doing all the things a man would do. It made him, again, like no one she'd ever met before.

"No? Never? No kids?"

He shook his head, brow furrowing. "I don't relate well to children. And women are often...cumbersome."

Her brows winged up, "Cumbersome? Like a coat in summer?"

He shrugged, and couldn't stop the smile. "Perhaps." His hand slid against her belly and he watched her eyes hood and her lashes tremble, "Would you like to copulate with me, Claire? Perhaps we might find I'm your type after all."

Jesus. She'd never had a man ask her to copulate before. It was almost ridiculous. What was the most ridiculous? She didn't find it ridiculous at all.

She was attracted to him. She had no idea why. He was handsome, sure, but lots of men were. He was older, which always flipped her switch, and a bit of a bore - but he wasn't. He really wasn't. He wasn't boring. He was almost - misunderstood? Something. She got the feeling he was just the type of guy who didn't quite understand friendship or dating or...love.

He thought love was chemicals, but it wasn't. It was hugging and holding and having...and copulating. She kinda wanted to know what it was like to love him. Because he was the strangest man she'd ever met.

And so she mused, "Maybe you should tell me how you copulate, Al. And convince me."

His mouth twitched a smile as he answered, "You wish for me to tell you about sex?"

Claire shivered and shifted toward him a little more. HIs hand slid down her belly to the front of her jeans and she whispered into his ear, "First you talk it, then you do it. Ok?"

Wesker leaned back to see her face. She was watching him with trembling lashes. Her body's response was clear and intimate. She wanted him to talk dirty to her and talking, on a good day, always came uncomfortably for him.

He didn't think he'd talk the way she wanted.

So he just said, "I'm very good at cunnilingus. I can show you right now."

And she laughed. She just laughed and gripped his face to kiss him. Yes, she thought, he was strangest man she'd ever met. But he was also, somehow, the cutest.

So she took him for a ride on her motorcycle to reward him for his effort.

He was surprisingly easy on it. He didn't object to holding on to her in the back position. He leaned into curves and handled the speed well. He didn't complain about the bumpy ride.

And on the side of the road in the dark, he proved he was as good as his word. He was very good at cunnilingus.

To his immense surprise, the flavor of her aroused him.

He wasn't much on the uselessness of oral sex. Annette had enjoyed performing it on him. She'd enjoyed receiving it, but it had never interested him. To perform sex without the purpose of reproduction was a mystery. It wasn't something he'd been taught as he'd grown up in the program.

Spencer wanted children to populate the Earth in his image, of course, but by means of science and rebirth of the race - not by the simple act of human intercourse.

The first time he'd lain with a woman, he'd almost wept that he'd been able to enjoy it. He'd been afraid that he never would. But the experimental sex between himself and Alex had netted a response from both of them that they were, indeed, still human.

She'd spread her thighs while he took her and moaned. They'd both climaxed, proving their bodies were still in need of such things, and he was certain Spencer had intended for them to be the Adam and Eve of his new world.

But Alex was missing something he was seeking.

He didn't know what - until now.

The flavor of Claire Redfield moved something in his mouth, in his belly, in his...heart? It moved something in him. She gripped at his hair and gasped, bowing on the bike while her thighs trembled around his face. She enjoyed each flick, lick, and curl. She panted his name and whimpered.

He craved her responses to him.

That was what was missing - his responses to any other woman. So he used his mouth to lay claim to her in a way that felt almost feral. Possessive. It wasn't like him to bother.

But he wanted to own her reactions to him.

He was running out of time.

But he wanted to keep her.

She wasn't his to keep.

* * *

**Two Days before the Mansion Incident**

* * *

"Do you love me?"

He paused where he stood in the shower. He turned to find her watching him in the foggy air.

She pressed him back against the wall and scooped his hair back with her hands.

"Do you love me, Al? I think I love you. But I've never loved anybody like this. So I don't know. Is it real?"

It was all real. It just wasn't the kind that lasted. It was real.

And he hated them both for it. He couldn't go back. He couldn't walk away. This was the only way to free himself from Spencer and Umbrella, forever. The cost had never been so high.

He kissed her, softly, and answered, "Attachment creates partners, Claire. Are you my partner?"

She leaned back to see his face and laughed, shaking her head, "I want to be. Are you asking me to go steady?"

In two days, he'd lead her brother to his death. His mouth moved on it's own, "I'm asking you to be mine."

She answered him with a kiss.

The last kiss of a woman betrayed by the man she loved.

He was Wesker.

He was Judas.

The crucifixion was at hand.

The only question was which body would be nailed to the cross.

* * *

 **Post Note:**  (*1) Fisher, Helen P.H.D. -Brains Do It: Lust, Attraction, and Attachment


	5. Chapter 5

**_ Affaire de Coeur _ **

_"We were hooked when we woke._  
 _We had arms for each other._  
 _But I yearned to resume_  
 _My dreams of another."_  
― **Roman Payne**

* * *

**Raccoon City - 1998 - Two Weeks Before The Mansion Incident**

* * *

Mine.

It was a word with so much connotation. He often found it's overuse to be almost irrational. People - no  _humans_ \- often tossed the word at anything that they felt a kinship toward or a possessive streak near.

Objects.

Items.

Things.

People.

All of these were  _mine._

He'd never used it to describe anything in his life before the tyrant. The tyrant was  _his._ The tyrant was birthed from the combined genius of himself and Birkin. Epsilon had finally given them the keys to the perfect future of man.

The first tyrant T-001 was feral. It was a beast. It was beautiful in sheer ferocity. But it was dumb. It was weak. It lacked discipline and determination and intelligence. It was a fledgling. They'd tried to improve upon it. They'd cloned bandersnatches to get around the failure of the body to adhere to the strain. They'd attempted to recode the DNA to sequence higher intellect.

But it was without hope.

The defeat didn't come from the virus. It came from the body. The human body that hosted the virus simply wasn't strong enough to become the thing they sought to create. The human race was too weak. A rare genetic anomaly was needed to give birth to a tyrant. Most hosts became zombies - stupid, hungry, basic. Only less than one percent of subjects had the intelligence and the genes to become a tyrant.

Lisa Trevor had given them the keys to victory.

And from her T-002 was born.

His laboratory name was so basic. It was simple. It wasn't anything worth shouting about.

But he was.

T2 was a masterpiece.

T2 had intellect. He was nearly human intelligent in its post infected form. It would follow commands. It would track. It would hunt. It would kill and maim or return a subject unharmed. It was...perfect.

The protrusion of the secondary heart was an issue. It offered a clear weakness to foes. It had been piggybacked to the actual heart of the human body inside the tyrant to offer enough power to supply blood to the entire body. It needed two hearts to thrive. It was superior to a human.

It was the beginning of a new world.

When he freed the Arklay lab and set loose the Epsilon strain, he would finally free the tyrant to join him.

The tyrant was his creation.

It was his.

Allowed, he murmured, "Mine." And he felt  _that_ in his blood.

He turned his gaze from his desk to the girl curled in the arm chair in his study. She wore little gray shorts and a pale blue t-shirt with the S.T.A.R.S. badge emblazoned on its chest. He often felt like she was his as well.

Her place in his life was distinctly unclear. Was she there to tempt him? Was she there to secure his trust and betray him? He'd become more and more suspicious of her since they'd begun their affair.

Not because she ever seemed to be hiding...but because she seemed so very open.

She talked, constantly, and never ceased to bore him. She had opinions on everything from the rise of the sun to the color of a pizza. She was a curious thing. A clever thing. A witty and wonderful thing. She was always trying to make him laugh.

Young and enthusiastic, she teased him about taking her rollerblading. She promised she'd catch him if he fell. She poked fun at his glasses, teasing him that only villains wore sunglasses at night.

She thought he was a hero.

But he wasn't.

It was becoming harder to remember that. Did he think she'd crave him, keep him, need him...when she discovered his duplicity?

He had her followed, discreetly, to determine her honesty. But she was guileless. She was flawless. She went to school. She went to them movies. She went to the diner down the road. She visited her brother. She had lunch with friends. She saw him.

She was not his enemy.

But he'd soon be hers.

He slipped in between this world he shared with her and his own almost effortlessly now. It was curious that both skins fit him. He'd never been a man that was interested in courting a woman.

Was he courting her? Such an old fashioned word. Was he trying to win her affection?

She caught him looking and smiled at him. The smile was gentle and soft. She tucked an errant red strand behind one ear and showed him the magazine in her hands, "...The Enquirer...you caught me reading trash I'm afraid."

"The ills and inner workings of the rich and debauched amuses you?"

Claire laughed, eyes sparkling, "Guilty as charged. I have a thirst for other people's misery. As long as their strangers."

As long as their strangers...

Would she have a thirst for the worlds? Maybe he could...keep her. It was the first real time he considered it. Maybe she'd understand his need to better the world. Maybe she'd forgive him the betrayal that loomed if he simply...explained to her the purpose of the data he needed to collect. Would she understand if told her about himself?

Would she understand that he had to -  _had to-_ bring down Umbrella?

Maybe she'd understand that Umbrella was the villain. And he...he was simply an instrument created like a tyrant. A weapon that had rebelled and turned on its maker. A necessary revolution to free the world and himself from the clutches of an ignorant corporation that was as corrupt as the celebrities she salivated on in her gossip rags.

It was true. He was a tyrant. He was Umbrella's creation.

Somewhere, someone in Umbrella's division of bio-organic weaponry was referring to Albert Wesker...as mine.

The word trembled with rage when put in the hands of someone claiming him.

And yet...what if that person were Claire?

Trying it out, he instructed, "Come here."

Her head tilted, "...say please."

He wondered if there were another person in the world that would make demands of him so playfully. What was that emotion that swirled in his chest for her? What?

Affection?

Attraction?

Adoration?

Amusement?

All these things. He could exhaust every word in the English language and never find exactly the right one to describe her.

But he gave her what she wanted. "Please."

Amused, she set down her magazine and lowered her long legs to the floor. She was smirking as she crossed the floor toward him and he pushed back his chair to welcome her into his lap. She settled over it like he was Saint Nicholas and she a child about to ask for a gift.

Her arm slid around his neck and she mused, "...what now?"

His hand shifted to her belly beneath the shirt she wore. Claire watched his face, curious about what he was thinking. Without his sunglasses, his eyes were so very blue. Icy blue. Winter blue. But not cold. She'd heard Jill and Chris talking about him like he was a robot or something. But he wasn't.

He was just...intense.

He studied his hand on her belly as he rubbed her. He was always doing that, rubbing her belly. It was like he was measuring her or something. He seemed incredibly aware of her.

Softly, he replied, "What are your plans for after college?"

A curious question. She shrugged, watching him run his hand around navel and stroke above her groin. "Real life I guess. I'm hoping to become a doctor. Med school sucks but I can manage it with Chris helping me out."

He nodded, stroking his thumb across her left hip. "And what of marriage?"

Her head tilted the other way, "You proposing?"

Surprised, his gaze lifted to her face. She didn't think he could be any cuter.

She was wrong.

He looked flustered. "I-no. It was-I was making small talk. Conversing on matters related to-dating? I was inquiring on topics that relate to our...this...our arrangement."

Our  _arrangement._

He was something else.

Her mouth twitched. "Hmm. So you're not asking me to marry you?"

Oh, she couldn't help herself. She grinned devilishly as he stroked her belly. He dropped his gaze back to his own hand. He replied, "...I'm unsure that we would suit in the long term, Claire. Generally that kind of evaluation requires a longer period of ass-"

Claire laughed, slapping a gentle hand over his mouth, "Ass? A longer period of ass? How much ass do you want, Al? Daily, nightly, and ever so rightly?"

He shook his head, watching her drolly behind her hand. She grinned again, winking at him, "Easy, handsome. I'm just pulling your dick here. I know you were about to refer to our relationship as an "assessment"." She did air quotes, "So was trying to spare us both that discomfort."

Wesker cleared his throat, looking sheepish and said, "I apologize. It find myself often at odds with the right way to converse with you. I'm not a man who spends time making chit-chat, Claire. I worry that you'll discover I'm..." He trailed off, surprised at himself.

She blinked twice and finished for him, "...boring?"

He said nothing.

She tilted her head once more, "Do you think you're boring?"

He didn't answer.

Claire winged her brows up and tried again, "Al...you're not boring. I'm aware that we're different. I'm aware that you're more Einstein than Van Halen. I'm not looking to join you in discovery the cure for cancer here. I like that you don't talk down to me. I like that you don't waste time on flattery you don't mean. You're not trying to actively get in my pants. You're just...honest. You're just honest with 're not boring. You're...kinda incredible."

The small seed of guilt germinated again in his guts. He wasn't. He wanted to be. But he wasn't.

Why?

Because he was afraid he'd lose her.

The truth of that left him a little cold.

She mattered.

She wasn't supposed to matter.

He struggled with how to make peace with her being...his.

Wesker said, softly, "I sometimes envision you...ripe."

She blinked. He blinked. She blinked. He blinked. And Claire queried, "...stinky?"

He cleared his throat. She twitched her lips. She added, "Like rank? Post work out? I just ran a mile on a sweaty day? I got B.O. from tits to toes?"

His hand curled against her belly. She stopped grinning and glanced down. Her eyes slid back up and locked on his. The moment shivered between them.

Quietly, he replied, "You would be like a Botticelli painting gestating."

Her breath caught twice as she queried, "Who?"

Wesker stroked her belly but kept his gaze on hers. "The Birth of Venus?"

Claire shrugged her shoulders and he returned, "The beautifully full bodied woman in the seashell?"

Claire blinked, cleared her throat, and whispered, "I had no clue who painted that. Are you calling me thick?"

His mouth twitched. He leaned it toward her and she inclined her head. The kiss was soft and giving. She knew what he was saying. That she would be perfect...pregnant.

She hadn't given any thought to children. She was so young. Girls her age were preparing to break the glass ceiling, not nurse an infant. That would be ridiculous to give up her future to find herself shackled to a man and suckling a baby.

Ridiculous.

She was a  _feminist._ Everyone knew about her opinions on men and marriage. One - she'd never marry. Monogamy wasn't something that the human condition even attempted to make feasible.

Two - she'd love to have children. When she was thirty. When she was secure. When she was ready.

She wasn't ready.

She wasn't some flighty girl that would be wooed by a handsome face and a rubbing hand against her uterus. Ridiculous. Did he think he could blink and get her biological clock ticking?

He leaned back and inquired, "Are you protected from pregnancy, Claire?"

Her hands trembled where they gripped his neck. "Of course. I'm on the pill. Why?"

His gaze turned up to hers. They held for a handful of tense moments. In a handful of days, her brother would be dead. Perhaps carrying on his bloodline, improving it, was a way of atoning for the wrong he would deal his sister.

"I would like it if you were to cease taking it."

Jesus. He was insane. She barely knew him. What made him think she'd consider having a child with him? He was too intense. She was losing sight of what they were doing here. He'd been a clever, beautiful, diversion from school and the insanity of back to back classes.

But he was starting to distract her from what she'd been pushing for since her parents died. He was starting to make her yearn for stupid domestic things that she had convinced herself long ago she didn't want. But why? Why really?

Because people died? Because her parents had died? That was a stupid reason to deny herself a normal life.

She didn't love him, right? Why was she even considering this?

His hand slid down into her panties to touch her. Her fingers gripped his hair and her mouth said, "...alright."

Apparently, her body wanted to try to have his baby.

Happy with her acquiescence, Wesker drew her into his arms to lay her across his desk. This was how he made peace with his demons, clearly, to fill her full of his child. Perhaps she would take the gift of his offspring as a sign of his apology for the death of her brother.

A small thing to lose a brother but gain a child...right?

* * *

**Four Days After the Mansion Incident...**

* * *

She was in the middle of midterm when the knock sounded. She couldn't know, didn't know, that her brother had survived the worst night of life. She couldn't know, didn't know, that his Captain was his enemy. That his Captain had died that night and come back...as something else.

She couldn't know, didn't know, that going off birth control would be the worst mistake she would ever make.

She opened her dorm room door to a man who'd been declared dead days before.

But her brother, trying to protect her, had never said a word. His silence would tie his sister to his greatest enemy for the rest of her life.

Claire laughed, eyes sparkling, "Al! What are you doing here?"

Quietly, the man who was now a tyrant, felt the stirring of feeling that told him his body, his human will, was still present in the flesh that was no longer just a mortal man.

"I have missed you, Claire. Have you...missed me?"

She smiled, scooping him into her arms to put her hands on his ass as she hugged him, "You're a weirdo, Al. Of course I missed you! I always miss you. How'd you get away from work?"

His hands scooped her face up to his. He felt a moment of a fear that she'd take his sunglasses and see his eyes. But she let him keep them as he kissed her.

She was constantly aware of his photophobia. She didn't push.

She should have pushed - it might have saved her.

He was a tyrant. He was no longer the man who'd wanted to love her. He intoned, "I needed to see you. I needed to be with you, Claire. I needed to touch you."

The way he talked would always make her feel like a goddess.

She kissed his mouth, softly, and replied, "I'm so glad you did."

His thumbs joined at the apex of her jaw. He tilted her face to his and commanded, "I want to come inside you, Claire. Take off your pants and let me."

Claire shivered, lost in the reflection of her flushed face in his sunglasses. "Right now?"

"Right now. Will you let me?"

Her thighs trembled, "...of course. Yes. But why?"

She watched his face as he leaned down to sniff her. Like...what? Like a dog? Like something that wanted to scent mark her. It shouldn't have made her damp. It shouldn't have made her feel like he simply "needed" her. But it did. He made her breath catch as he said, "You're fertile, Claire. Are you mine?"

Her hands gripped into his shirt, "...yes. Are you mine?"

There was the shiver of that thing for her that surprised him. It was that feeling that she was as strong as he was. That she was as possessive. That she wanted, somehow, to own some part of him that he wasn't offering.

Would she take it from him even if he denied her?

Her hands slid down and skimmed her panties down her legs. She held his gaze the whole time.

He answered her, quietly, "...yes." He wasn't sure how, but he was. What he was, he didn't know. But some part of him still craved her.

It was need in a way that feral. It was need in a way that was theirs.

Her breath hitched as she whispered, "...show me."

She leaped around him to claim him and damned them both.


End file.
